


Two for One Special

by cryogenia



Series: Fetishstuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Belly Rubs, Come Inflation, Consensual Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Feeding, M/M, Post-Game, Stuffing, Weight Gain, if somewhat undernegotiated, tfw you discover a whole new area of your sexuality, with the last person you ever expected to see in a sexual situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9656054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/pseuds/cryogenia
Summary: Being alive (again) is hard.Being alive and discovering a kink you never knew you had -- with the last troll you ever meant to see again -- is harder.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roundandtalented](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roundandtalented/gifts), [Xagave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xagave/gifts).



> This is 110% unabashed, unashamed feeder fetish porn -- it'll either be right up your alley or absolutely not your thing. If it turns out to be your thing unexpectedly: welcome to the club.

It’s not something you intended to notice, hand to cod and flog you for it. Like most of your life it’s a complete accident, as well as a curse, but it starts out in the simplest of ways. You’re “making yourself useful” by tidying the can-hivestem’s common area and for once someone’s sticking around to notice. Everyone else has torn off to the next phase of their stupid wiggler party save for Sol, who’s glued to his gadgets in the corner. 

You’re just picking up around his husktop ( _ helping _ , not hovering, would a fuckin’ thank you be too much, Sol) when you notice him shift in his seat. As you take the pizza box away, his hand goes to his gut and he makes a cross-eyed grimace.

“Oof,” he says, kind of laughing. Like he’s making fun of you for something. And because he’s got his hand on his stomach and because you’re getting ready to lay into him you look down and you realize that wow, uh, his stomach is definitely out there. His belly is curved out and he’s rubbing right at the apex, wiggling back forth like it hurts. The bottom of his t-shirt rides up a bit and there’s this blazing, captivating sliver of ashy skin. He looks slightly embarrassed but also so absently pleased with himself and anything you were going to say dies an awestruck death.

You wave the pizza box in your hand. It’s completely empty. Slick wells deep in your nook and you do what you do best: you panic and shut down, pick an argument about something completely pointless, and flounder away in shame. 

After that you start paying a little more attention though. Why not?  You’re the king of awkward and intrusive, but this is easy to keep discrete. It’s not like Sol is known to give a shit about what he looks like or what other people think. You used to hate that back in the old days. You were so conscious of everyone’s opinions: the reviews on your FLARP campaigns, Kar’s thoughts on your favorite movie, whatever. Sol will flop into his computer chair in a towel and forget to put on anything if nobody complains. When he sits around without a shirt now, you peek while you complain.

Because okay, now that you’re looking, maybe there’s a little more to Sol, both literally and figuratively. Being dead now feels like a weird extended dream but you definitely remember the most vexing part: you didn’t change. Sol was a walking stick made of dark eye circles and pointy elbows and a few ‘two’ many teeth, and you were a gawky nerd trapped forever in your third-best rings. That was a dream bubble axiom. 

Now when you swing by his block, you can’t help but notice the slight softness to his arms, the way his thighs squish out a bit when he sits. When he leans to use his mouse, his belly gets a gentle crease.

You also notice he’s never without some kind of snack: pop tarts or chips or the hardcore Faygo the humans call ‘Code Red’. Sol will eat or drink pretty much anything you put in front of him when he’s at his console, and you’ll see him typing one handed with the other buried deep into a ‘family’ sized bag of human Doritos. ‘Families’ must have been twelve feet tall and 90% stomach, because their snacks are simply enormous. You watch over the period of a couple hours as Sol codes and whittles away at the sack. As he stains his keyboard and lips orange, his jeans just get tighter and tighter.

You lock yourself in your own block and take off your own pants, which have gotten tight for different reasons.

It’s a curse, you know it is. The same troll you once thought you wanted to take to pieces is now the troll you think about when you squeeze your stupid shameglobes, for stupid reasons that don’t make sense. You’ve seen pailing videos where the ingenue steps out from sea foam and unfurls her fins, or the money shots where the first-timer draws his hair back to display the vulnerable bases of his horns. You look at Sol’s gut after Nep makes barbeque and you feel the same rush normal trolls get when a  kismesis pins their fated spade to a wall for the first time. Of course it fuckin figures, you’re already so fucked up. You might as well have a weird Captor kink too.

So maybe you offer him stuff periodically, and maybe he starts accepting. (With open suspicion the first time, which pissed you off because for cod’s sake you have bent over backwards to prove that you’re helpful and not at all murderous. You have done  _ errands _ for practically everyone in this can-hivestem, does that not count for something?) Sol claims he’s restoring not only the internet but recovering schoolfeeds from old datagrub molts that Kar and Ara excavated. You’re a trained archivistador with a lifelong passion for (select forms of) history. You have a vested interest in making sure Sol’s useless carcass stays well nourished and well hydrated while he works, is all. 

And he does stay well nourished, more so than you’ve ever seen him. He still doesn’t seem to pay attention to what he eats while he’s typing, but when you bring him a fresh plate he pauses long enough to give you a nod. Sometimes, a tiny smirk. He digs his claws into something you make and it sends a hot pulse of happy through the center of your pan. It’s the simplest thing but it makes you feel so good. When you bring him sugar grubs that he especially likes, he actually catches your eye as he tosses them back. He devours them in three huge bites, holding your gaze the entire time.

It sends shivers all the way down your posture pole. Your knees go so weak you have to wobble to your block.

You think about telling somebody a few times, but who?  Even you know this isn’t casual lunch date material. (It’s not like you have casual lunch dates.) ‘On a scale from one to how fucked up am I?’ is a deeply pale game, and unfortunately, contrary to movies, it’s possible to be so fucked up that nobody pities you at all. You consider porn, but that’s right out on account of Sol controls the internet. You’ve got a real picture of asking to search poke through his archives because you want to know if other weird shit gets you off, or if it’s just him.

You bring him a pack of alchemized grubjerky instead and complain that you still don’t have fuckin’ Troogle, is there a reason it’s taking weeks to get stuff other than Trollian?  He crams almost all the jerky into his maw in one go and flips you off with the remaining two sticks. 

You have to press your thighs together to hold in the slick. 

So why the fuck not?  That’s basically your manta these days. Why the fuck not have an obsession with stupid Sol and his stupid mangled fangs and his stupid soft, soft gut. Cause it is a gut at this point, no mistake about that. His waistband has started digging into it when he sits down, unless he remembers to push his pants beneath the overhang. You nearly short-circuited discovering there’s an overhang. One night you went in there to give him shit about his aggro management (you play  _ Cull of Duty _ together sometimes now, whatever, he’s a decent tank when he’s not letting shit hit you) and he’s got six cans of Red Fairybull open along with the top button of his jeans. 

He’s got enough softness to fill out the gap where the button was. Enough to be pressing his zipper part way down. He’s got his hand on the side of his rounded, swollen belly, and he watches you crash and burn as every last argument flash-boils out of your pan. 

This is the part where you could really use a moirail, or at least Kar unblocking you. You aren’t built for tension, you get anxious and annoying until even  _ you _ hate you. You swore you’d never do that pining shit again, except now you  _ are _ , so you extra-hate yourself. You lay on the floor by Sol’s desk and pretend you’re here to annoy him into trying this human book you found (he  _ would _ like it if he bothered to read, it’s charming historical fiction about a pizza delivery hacker) but all you can actually focus on is his curvy legs. You want to lick every inch from his ankles to his nook. You bet the insides of his thick thighs are so silky.

You’re already cursed, so why the fuck don’t you dig yourself in deeper?

You save up your meal allowance for a couple days until you have grist to waste on pizza. The delivery kind, not the cheap alchemized stuff. Technically you would have more credits if you got a job, but unfortunately your skills lie in doomsday weapons and sharpshooting, neither of which are appreciated in New Cantown for bullshit reasons. Sol is into this new game he recovered lately, this co-op thing where you emulate a real flaysquad in a space survival situation. You know that means you're going to spend at least six hours on his couch telling him to stop dismantling everything in the fuckin’ escape pod. Perfect opportunity to order something in. 

He never invites anybody else when you're over, but he pretends it's because he wants to argue with you specifically instead of, well, everyone hating your reassembled guts. You figure if he'll do you that solid, it's only natural you can spring for rations.

You set up on his couch with minimal fuss, wrapped in a snuggleplane to hide your inevitable discomfort. Sol tosses you one of his freshly hatched husktops because the one you've got is on its final molt. You pay him back by tweaking the scenario, because fucked if you're going to get stuck with a late-game oxygen explosion again. You've done that event three fucking times and the config file is simple enough even if you're not a giant nerdlord.

Sol squints at your changes but he doesn’t bitch. He actually gives you a nubs-up and sends ‘ glhfdn all ’. You’re actually going to have to learn what that means. 

From here you’re pretty much hive-free until the random events kick in. Team survival used to be at least half educarcerational; they’d trick you into learning flaysquad protocol by packaging it as a game. Which is great if you want military realism, shitty if you need action every second. Repairing and piloting a disabled lifepod also means patches of downtime while you’re waiting for diagnostics to run. That’s usually when Sol starts unscrewing things. 

Today, you’ve got a better plan. You wait until you’ve successfully cleared the first obstacle - nasty hull breach, half your oxygen venting out to space - and make sure the comm system has started its excruciatingly slow self-check routine before you tip your hand.  

“Hey Sol,” you ask. So casual-like. Casual as sweatpants on a gaming night that absolutely do not have expandable elastic and absolutely do not make Sol’s ass look even bigger. “You wanna get pizza?”

Sol’s avatar pauses as he gifts you a valuable half-second of his attention. “I can always go for pizza.”

Oh yes, can he ever go for pizza. Half the time when you come in, he has at least one box kicking around already. You’ve watched him make a sandwich out of two different flavors, one piece inverted onto another to make a single unholy, cheesy monstrosity. If you didn’t bring him other things, you think he’d subsist wholly off pizza. 

This is why you have the snuggleplane. You think Sol is still talking, but you’re struggling not to make your own sounds as your nook clenches.

“Supreme?” you ask him, pressing your legs together. 

“Yeah.” He gives you a little half-smile, just a peek of two fangs. You’re surprised how much that warms your pusher. You remembered his favorite flavor and he liked that! You are so fucking smart. You.

(Normal trolls wouldn’t care to look at others’ pizza boxes, but whatever. 99.99% of Alternian trolls are dead so. You can be 8.3333% of the new normal.)

You hit up the app and extra-casually plop the order in. Takeout delivery drones, you can’t help but notice, were one of the first innovations to come back after the apocalypse. They should have your order here within six minutes of a pie coming out of the oven. You extra-special-casually put down your palmhusk and adjust the snuggleplane over your knees. You are such a shameless fucker and you don’t even care.

Because right before the final checkout, you maybe tweaked the quantity. You maybe didn’t get one large, but two. It’s not like you’re forcing him into anything. 

He gets pizza. You get to watch him getting pizza. If he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t have to take it. Everybody wins.

In the game, Sol is back to fucking with your escape pod’s wiring. You make a ploy at chasing mini-Sol away from the mini box of tools, but otherwise your focus is shit. When the drop-zone sends you the alert you’re up so fast you nearly trip. 

The pizzas are piping hot and  _ heavy _ , loaded with toppings you don’t even recognize. You bring the boxes to Sol and he gives you a long, inscrutable look.

“There was a deal,” you say, weirdly defensive. You thought he liked things that come in twos. Does he -- has he maybe realized there’s something off about you lately?  Is it really that creepy for you to be nice? You’re trying to be nice about being creepy.

Just when you think you’re sunk and the sweat is prickling down your back, Sol flashes you a fangy, cocky grin.

“Fair enough.”

Before you can abscond to a safe viewing distance, Sol pops open the top box (that you are still holding!!) and picks up coddamn half the pizza. You watch in stunned silence as he lifts the entire chunk with both hands and takes a huge bite.

Oh. Oh fuck your entire resurrected life sideways.

“Nnn,” Sol hums obnoxiously. Obnoxious because it goes straight to your nook, and to your tendrils that are starting to respond. He is not seriously making noises while he eats, is he?

“Fuck, that’s good!”

He is. He is going to moan like a redrom star over grease and cheese, and that has to be fake as shit but you can’t call him on it because, who does that?  Who sits there and debates the realness of someone’s food-porn noises?  That makes it seem like you’re paying attention. (You are absolutely paying attention.) He’s probably fucking mocking you and you can’t do anything without confirming what a perv you are, and you have rarely seen a pitch play pitched that perfectly.

Sol sets two slices in his soft lap so he can more effectively double-fist the other two and okay, shit, you definitely need some distance.

“Do I need to give you three some alone time?” It’s not your best jab, but the best you can come up with under extremely extenuating circumstances. You dump the pizza boxes on his desk and turn to flee, but Sol stops you.

“You’re not gonna have any?”

Shit. That does look fucked up, doesn’t it?  You asked and you paid, so why wouldn’t you also be eating?  You turn back around slowly and Sol is gesturing to the remaining slices balanced on his knee. He’s already inhaled the first two like they were  _ nothing _ .

“No? I’m not eatin’ your fuckin’ pants pizza,” you manage, because one, standards and two, Jegus fuck, you have this image of being on your knees in his space. You would take the pizza from him and push his plush legs apart so you can stretch up and feed him yourself.

Your tendrils surge at the bulge-block mesh stitched into your panties. You are so turned on it hurts.

Sol shrugs and doesn’t offer you anything else, even though the boxes are technically right there. He picks up both remaining pieces at once and mushes them into a pizza-sandwich and you watch helplessly as he mows that down too. Half a pizza and he’s already reaching for more, and this is really happening right now, right here. You think about escape again but honestly, why should you?  He’s enjoying himself and he doesn’t seem to give a fuck, and you have been too good for too long to deny the temptation now. 

“If you’re not gonna eat, gimme me the box,” he growls. 

You startle slightly, jerking away from the desk. You guess you are kind of blocking his reach. He just leans back in his rolling chair, watching you. His eerie eyes burn like mismatched stars and he’s brushing a splat of sauce off the curve of his gut and you don’t know why this does it for you, but it does. It does so much.

It’s not on your knees (cause you do have your pride) but you think you can get away with this slick maneuver. You dip into the open box like you’re getting a slice for yourself and then hand it to him. Nothing creepy, nothing he would remotely suspect. He accepts and tingles break out from your fingers to strutpods. You have to fake-cough to keep your purrbox from clicking. 

Fuck, you want to give him good things. You want to cuddle up to his soft sides and pet his belly and feed him expensive treats you can’t afford anymore. You want to pull him into your lap while you’re playing games and lick his ragged ears and argue strat with him in person. You want to  _ touch  _ him. 

Sol is almost through the piece you gave him and he looks so damn happy. You - you want him to be happy too. When he reaches for a Code Red, you give it to him.

He drains half the can in two long, glorious pulls and sets it on his mousepad. 

“Hit me,” he says. It takes you a second to realize he means ‘more pizza’. Your fingers do their damndest not to shake when you shove a slice at him and  _ he takes a bite directly from your hand. _

Holy shit. He’s eating out of your hand and you are not going to survive this. You are going to melt and then you are going to combust, because you were not made to endure reciprocation. He’s equal parts sweet and hot, looking up at you through his strange glasses while he nibbles. You are absolutely shivering. 

And you can’t. You can’t you can’t you can’t, you’re so wet you feel like you’re soaking through your jeans and your fins are like radiators and you. Can’t handle it. You try to pull away but he catches your wrist and -- oh cod -- draws your hand back so he can keep eating. 

He’s so fucking gentle with you, that’s what gets you. Like your callused hand in his is something to be cherished. His fingers cup beneath yours and he steadies your trembling.

“Okay?” he asks between bites. 

Your tongue is fused to the roof of your squawkblister but you nod, vigorously. Fuck, it’s more than okay. He’s -- he either gets it, or he gets you, and either way you are  _ electric _ . He rubs at your hand and you do kick in the subsonic vocals this time, the very beginnings of a trill. You don’t dare move in case it breaks something. 

Sol finishes the last bit and ghosts his lips across your fingers. The grin he gives you is the same as his ‘best two-out-three”. 

“Hit me,” he says again. 

You do trill now, too turned on and pleased to care that you’re singing for him. Your head is fucking swimming from the pure joy that he’s getting into this, that he’s actively challenging you to keep going. You float your way through getting him another slice and you watch in awe as he starts nibbling that one too. 

He has a hand on his swelling belly, rubbing circles on the side with his thumb. You maybe openly chirp at that. 

He makes a tiny noise right back at you, a quieter version of the fake-moans he was teasing you with before. More honest. You can’t tear your lookstubs away. He’s got a little furrow in his brow like he’s concentrating, and a smear of sauce on his pudgy cheek that begs for someone to clean it. His hair is sticking out in four different directions like always and you want to pet it straight. You want to kiss him senseless and muss it worse.

Probably in a romance you would say something first, something sexy or witty or at least not fuckin’ weird, but movies are movies and you’re you, so of course you make it as weird as possible. Your free hand just finds his cheek like it was drawn by magnets and you wipe the blotch of sauce away with your thumb. You’re cleaning him up at the same time as you’re feeding him and your shameglobes are so swollen that your whole nook aches. 

Sol takes a break to offer a sweet, hiccupping purr and pushes his cheek into your palm like a happy beast. He’s being so good for you and you’re still half-convinced this is happening in a sopor dream. He looks over at his can of soda and you give it to him, mesmerized by the long line of his throat as he drinks.

“Fuck,” he wheezes under his breath. When you touch his cheek again, he looks up at you with half-lidded, dopey eyes. 

“You like that?” you whisper back. It sounded so much bolder in your head. 

Sol nods into your hand and shows you all four of his uneven fangs.

“Mm-hmm,” he rasps. “‘S nice.”

He keeps one hand rubbing back and forth over his belly, right above the strip where his shirt is riding up. Your fins are so hot they’re starting to throb. 

“Me?  Or the pizza?” You immediately regret asking. You sound so  _ whiny _ . 

Sol rolls his eyes at your neediness too. 

“Both, dumbass,” he grumbles and nips at your fingers. It’s not hard enough to warn you away though. It makes you want you give him more, tell him he can finish this pizza if he’s so keen to chomp on things.

He absolutely could finish this pizza. He’s got only one slice left. 

Sol has a hand under his shirt, ‘discretely’ tugging at his waistband. He pets at his stomach like he’s soothing a nervous creature. You hold out the last piece and try not to seem desperate.

When Sol starts nibbling, you purr right along with him. 

“Good?” you ask him when he’s down to cornmeal crumbs (that he licks off your fingers, holy hell. He’s so greedy for this your tendrils are twisting themselves in a knot). Sol hiccups and nods, purring in broken fits that makes you weak at the knees. His belly is a soft, swollen teardrop curving into his lap. And he’s into this. He’s  _ into  _ this. You take a step in closer, in between the loose cage of his knees and that’s it, you’re done for. You slide a hand down his chest and over his swollen middle, and he leans into your hand.

You feel like you’ve been holding your breath for aeons and you’ve just let it go.

His belly is firm and taut through his thin shirt. The heat coming off him is unbelievable, even for a psionic. Sol groans and presses even harder into your touch, like he doesn’t mind the compression. Maybe he likes a measure of pain. You stroke him hard and he lights up, literally. Tiny sparks dance at the tips of his horns and he spreads his legs wider. Like he’s welcoming you in.

You...maybe lose your mind a little.

You smack the empty pizza box to the floor and paw at the second one, because the only thing in your head is giving him what he wants. Food, affection, your washed-up sea dweller ass waiting on him prong and nub. Anything. You just want him to keep smiling at you like that. When you give him the first slice this time, your other hand is there to soothe the ache, and when he starts to slow down you dig in harder. He likes it when you push him, you’re rapidly finding out. You are more than happy to oblige.

He’s starting to slow down now, leaning back in his chair so his belly can bow out. Sweat beads across his forehead and his shirt is sticking to his skin where you’re rubbing him.

“You okay?” you ask. 

Sol grunts and digs at the top of his jeans. He’s got them pushed all the way down beneath the curve of his stomach, the only way they can even fit around him.

“Better stop,” he pants. “If you wanna fuck me.”

Oh. 

Oh  _ fuck _ . 

You’re still shut down on the concept of sex with you as an active participant when Sol decides he’s tired of your dithering. He heaves himself forward and slide-flops gracelessly to the floor, cradling his tender stomach as he sprawls out beside his computer desk. He’s such a ridiculous, pitiful lump that you find it in your shriveled pusher to offer him a hand. 

“You got a perfectly good couch,” you remind him.

He grabs your hand and tugs you toward him, which is kind of the opposite of your perfectly magnanimous gesture. 

“Fuck that,” Sol says. “C’mon.”

You wrinkle your nose. 

“On the floor!?” 

That’s where socks live. And datagrub molts. And toppings from the pizza you’ve been feeding him, it’s not like he’s particularly dainty with his manners.

“That’s fuckin’ gross, Sol.”

“Get on me and deal,” he argues. It’s a pretty good argument. You are certainly not about to counter.

You shove his stupid chair aside and go down on nub and prong, trembling all the way to your horns. A part of you still can’t believe this is happening, like if you blink you’re going to wake up and your guts will be on the floor again. The parts that can believe it are destroying your best denim from the inside out. 

Sol is struggling with the button to his own jeans so it’s only natural that you help him. You watch his face anxiously but his only expression you see is ‘relief’ as you yank his pants open. The zipper starts to push down on its own as he squirms. He seems to be having trouble bending around his swollen belly.

“You want these off?”

“Yeah,” he moans. He digs his knuckles into the sides of his bloated belly and kneads at it while you peel his pants off him, barely giving you any help at all. It’s like he’s pinned to the floor by the weight at his middle. Your nook clenches just thinking about it.

You manage to get his jeans off (after a slight delay involving shoes) and then his thick thighs are all yours, every inch as sleek as you imagined them. Kar has great legs too but he’s built more like a brick loadgaper enclosure; Sol is pillowy soft with hardly any muscle tone at all. When you kiss at the inside of one thigh it jiggles and fuck, you want to cuddle him for the rest of your natural lives. Your facial fins smack awkwardly all over his legs as you fulfill your dream of mapping him with your tongue. You’re too turned on to dial back their flare. 

Sol whines and paws at his underwear, a modest pair of human-style ‘boxer-briefs’. They’re so tight they’re pushed beneath his belly too, and the alien cloth does nothing to hide the obvious squirming lump at the apex of his nook.

“C’mon,” he orders again, and this time you hear the plea behind the bossiness. “Get ‘em off, get your shit off, c’mon…”

“Okay,” you say faintly, tugging at your jeans. You’ve never -- well, you’ve never had anyone with you in three dimensions. Vris used to send you pics sometimes over Trollian and you are a master of the very hot (and very unrequited) pitch advance, but as far as pailing goes it’s always been you and your standard-issue toys. Not that you have a problem! It’s just, the etiquette isn’t clear.

Like, should you take your pants off first?  Or his underwear?  So far he’s winning the strip tease arms race. You scoot back and kick off your jeans and your panties together because you will be damned if you let him get any further ahead of you. The whole mess squelches when you toss it aside because even well designed bulge-block underwear couldn’t have been alchemized with Sollux Captor in mind. (You should make a warning label specifically for Sollux Captor.)

Sol whines and makes grabby hands for you to crawl back over him. He keeps trying to twist his head so he can see you, which is both gratifying and terrifying at the same. You can’t quite meet his eyes, but you catch the stressed elastic to his briefs. If you do it quick, you won’t melt down. 

“Yes,” he breathes, wiggling beneath you. He can’t quite lift his hips to help you get his underwear off but he whimpers and makes all the right noises as you clumsily tug them down. His tendrils are thick and heavy with slime, glistening in the low light from Sol’s monitor and you still  _ cannot believe you’re doing this _ . The tip of one tendril brushes your arm and you can’t stop fucking chirping. 

Sol runs his hands up his round belly, his soft chest, putting every last inch of himself on display. He can’t even sustain a consistent purr and he’s still wearing his ratty pizza-stained BeeOS shirt and you want him so much your tendrils plunge into your own nook. You trill and fall onto your hands, unprepared for your posture pole to turn liquid. 

Sol catches your face in his hands and brushes his fingers over the delicate tines of your fins. Lightning blossoms in their wake and you don’t even know what your expression is doing. You probably look like an idiot. Your tendrils are rubbing your own fucking shameglobes and your jaw is hanging open like a screen door in a gale and you are so coddamn embarrassed. 

Sol pinches one of your surprisingly sensitive fins and even more surprisingly, the jolt goes straight to your nook. 

“Fuck me,” he demands, and yes, that. That is at least a direction to sail for.

You sit back between his legs and try to figure out where your various limbs should go. You’re not ignorant - you’ve had all the mandatory schoolfeeds, on top of your internet ‘extracurriculars’ - but it’s hard to put half-remembered camera angles into practice. The easiest position, the mediculler feeds always claimed, is face-to-face interlock with your tendrils in each other’s nooks. It must be true because it was too boring to ever appear in porn. You hook your legs awkwardly over his hips and scoot your groin closer to his but he slaps at you.

“Just get yours in me,” he says, which is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard and also deeply confusing.

“Are you serious?” 

“Yes? Wanna feel you.” His nasally growl isn’t deep but it’s compelling in its own right. “Don’t worry about it.”

Which of course guarantees you’re going to worry, because who would reassure you unless you’re fucking up?  You chitter nervously and look down at his tendrils to figure out how you could make them reach. He’s got two (of course) but they’re only half as long as yours. One of them is oddly shaped, thick and rigid and it hardly moves at all when you touch it.    
  
A spark of red crackles down Sol’s body and you jerk your hands away. 

“What the fuck!”   
  
“Mutant shenanigans,” he says, surprisingly softly. “They’re not long enough. It’s okay.”

He curls two fingers around the prehensile one and pulls it straight, groaning deep in his thorax. He’s so full he has to reach around his belly to touch himself.

That melting-down thing?  Pretty sure you’re doing it.

Sol pulls on himself again and your own tendrils writhe in sympathy. They keep raking into your own nook and you can’t even stop making noises long enough to do something about it. You’re used to pailing yourself, okay?  Your tendrils haven’t ever had anyone else to reach for. You dig your claws into your own thighs and warble to the ceiling. 

Sol makes a strange hissy-click that could be a challenge or maybe just impatience filtered through his lisp. It grounds you more than the scratches on your legs, though.

“Come on. Tab A, Slot B. Do you need a carpenter drone manual?”

“Hold your fuckin’ skyhorses,” you grumble back, secretly relieved. You know how to deal with him being obnoxious; you call him on that shit. You squirm around till you’re straddled over him again, so you can watch his face while you pull your tendrils out to play. 

“This what you want?” you ask, stretching your four out just barely shy of his. Sol rumbles and cranes his neck, trying to sneak a peek around his own bloated belly. Your pusher is going a parsec a minute and you are so wet you’re dripping, and you have never needed anyone more.

“You like me pinnin’ you down?  You like me bein’ on top a you?  You want to be full ‘a me too?”

“Yes,” Sol breathes. He spreads his legs and clutches at his soft sides and squishes his gut toward you, like he’s offering himself up. 

If you look at him any longer you are genuinely going to explode so you don’t. You rock your hips down and jab your tendrils at his nook, and hope like hell they make it inside. 

And he’s

so.

fuckin’.

_ Tight _ , tighter than anything you have ever felt, and you shriek because this is nothing like schoolfeeds, nothing even like being in your own nook. Your tendrils are long and slender and they can go so much farther in him. Heat roils down your belly and you rock forward, helpless, as his nook contracts and draws you deeper in. 

Sol groans and pushes at your shoulder, lifting you away from his full stomach.

“Watch it,” he gasps. You click a rough ‘sorry’ because you don’t have the air for words. Your strutpods are liquefying and you can barely hold yourself up. 

One of your hands finds his middle and you rub awestruck circles over his tight skin. His ugly shirt has rolled up to his chin and there’s nothing between your fingers and his softness. Sol gasps and chirrs and goes slack beneath you.

Like he’s melting. You’re making him melt, and he is so hot inside you’re melting too, and you can’t stop making helpless little clicks that aren’t even land dweller-audible.

“Fuck me,” he begs again and shivers lace all the way through your posture pole. He  _ wants _ you, really wants you, and there’s no way it could be a lie. You knead at his taut middle and his nook squeezes on your tendrils like there’s a wire stringing his belly to his concupiscent parts. You’re not going to last even thirty seconds. You’re going to dart him up and shatter apart.

“Sooll,” you warble. His name doesn’t even have any pesky ww’s. His shameglobes are pressing at the base of your bulge and it’s lighting you up like a box of combustion sticks.

Sol’s head lolls to one side like he’s adrift on an ocean of sopor. When you pet right at the apex of his belly, he closes his strange, blazing eyes. 

“It’s good,” he tells you in a low voice, like he’s sharing a great secret. “You’re so good.” 

That’s all the encouragement you need, pathetic as you are. Your tendrils twist and his shameglobes swell and you are done, you are done, you are done. Heat pulls in through your groin and explodes out, one, two, three, four. 

You can feel it in your  _ teeth _ .

Coming down into interlock is nothing like you’d ever expected, so warm and cozy and  _ good _ . Sol’s internal shameglobes are clamped at the base of your four tendrils and it feels like a welcoming hug. Your purrbox starts up completely of its own volition as you continue to pulse into him, sending trickles of liquid happy through your veins. Your own nook is achingly empty, but from the look of him Sol is full enough for the both of you.

“Are you okay?” you ask, stroking at Sol’s pudgy sides. His own purr is rough and intermittent but it’s starting to pick up with each pulse of genetic material you shudder. 

“Mm-hmm,” he slurs, dazed. His middle is absolutely enormous, swollen with food and drink and now your own gene slime in his material sac. You can’t imagine what he’d look like over a pail.

“You like this,” you whisper. 

“Mm-hmm.”

“Even though I missed your bulge.”

You can still feel his tendrils twitching against your skin. They seem to be twined around each other, painting you with his color. 

You shiver through another long pulse and it’s so much. It’s so, so much.

“Do you want to be in me?” you choke out through the purr. Everything is so warm and hazy and coming unfocused and you just want him to feel like this too. He’s so warm and tight and good and you’ve never been with anyone before. You can barely hold yourself up and yet you can’t stop petting him.

“I can do it,” you tell him. “I’ll make it good, I’ll make it so fuckin’ good.” 

“ED.”

Sol’s fingers catch one of your fins and pull you closer. The slight pain cuts through your stupor and you whimper to him. You can feel how full he is and you don’t want to put too much of your weight on top of him but he seems to like the pressure if you add it slowly. 

“Chill,” he tells you. “Easy. Like this.”  

He tugs on your fin and you lean a little more into the hard dome of his belly, until he’s hissing and squirming beneath you. You chirp and try to lift away but he gasps and shakes his head. 

“Fucking -- almost --”

He grabs for your free hand and shoves it between your bodies, right above the place where you’re still joined, and guides you to push up and in. His purr cuts right into an outright wail as he arches beneath you and liquid heat gushes over your tendrils. 

Holy fuck, he’s pailing onto you. He’s not waiting for a bucket, he’s taken everything you’ve given him and is spilling it back  _ with you still inside of him _ , and that is the most taboo, most depraved, pan-searingly hottest thing that has ever happened to you.

You scream an unintelligible tangle of sounds that could be a trill or a click or Sol’s name, and every inch of your body lights at once. You summon one last explosive surge of ecstasy - one-two-three-four contributions deep inside him - and collapse to one side, too overwhelmed to do anything but pant.

The world comes back to you in fits and starts, like a game that hasn’t entirely finished loading. You’re aware of a corn chip a few inches from your cartilaginous nub. You’re aware of your tendrils sluggishly retracting, streaking purplish-yellowish-grey all over everything. You’re aware most of Sol, who looks like he just got hit by an eighteen wheel device. You wriggle your way valiantly closer and do your best to kiss his fuckin’ face off. 

Sol sighs and spreads one hand over his stomach, rubbing more gingerly now that he’s not using you as a bucket. His lower half is a royal mess of your violet and you - you’re going to have to process that some day. For now, the best you can handle is cleaning him up.

You thump your thorax a few times to create a break in your purr.

“So hey uh,” you say, because you are a master of eloquence and grace. “I know you nerdy asses don’t believe in hygiene, but any chance you want to hit a bathtub with me?  Ablution trap. Whatever you dirt scrapers -- land dwellers! -- call it. You know what I mean.”

(Apparently you can’t even insult him proper anymore - you keep wanting to be nice! He really is a fuckin’ curse.)

Sol finally turns his head and acknowledges you with the softest, strangest of smiles. For a long moment, you think maybe he’s going to say something. You wonder if maybe you should say something instead. You wonder if he’d understand that you’re happy-purring too hard to think too much, let alone say the things that matter.

Then Sol shifts and points up at his distant computer desk.

“Okay,” he says. “If you get me a Code Red first. Gotta stay hydrated and shit.”

He runs his hands over his belly with a familiar smirk. Your pusher seizes and then it takes off doing loop de loops in your chest.

“Maybe  _ two _ Code Reds. In fact, you might as well get the rest of the pizza,” he says. 

He taps at your exhausted, half-retracted tendrils and incredibly, grins.

“You’re going to need your energy,” he says. 

He’s either a curse or a blessing in disguise, but whichever way you slice it, he’s  _ yours  _ now.


End file.
